Enter betimes with more than martial fire The generous course, aspire, and still aspire: And to one purpose cleave, their Being's goilike mate! Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid brow That woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy vow; With modest scorn reject whate'er would blind The ethereal eyesight, cramp the winged mind! Then, with a blessing granted from above To every act, word, thought, and look of love, Life's book for Thee may lie unclosed, till age Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest page. 1829. * There is now, alas! no possibility of the anticipation, with which the above Epistle concludes, being realized: nor were the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom they were intended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. W Fletcher, to India, and died of cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three years, on her way from Shalapore to Bombay, deeply lamented by all who knew her. Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast; and bet great talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful in the difficult path of life to which she had been called. The opinion she entertained of her own performances, given to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, was modest and numble, and, indeed, far below their merits; as is often the case with those who are making trial of their powers, with a hope to discover what they are best fitted for. In one quality namely, quickness in the motions of her mind, she had, within the range of the Author's acquaintance, no equal. IV. POOR ROBIN.* Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking power Flowers, or a richer produce (did it suit But while a thousand pleasures come unsought, Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend, The small wild Geranium known by that name. Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will МАКСИ, 1840. V. THE GLEANER. (SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.) THAT happy gleam of vernal eyes, That cheek, a kindling of the morn, I saw; and Fancy sped -- To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air, Of bliss that grows without a care, (How can it where love never dies?) — What mortal form, what earthly face, 'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers, Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn, 1. VI. TO A REDBREAST-(IN SICKNESS). STAY, little cheerful Robin! stay, Though I, alas! may ne'er enjoy A charm, that thought cannot destroy, Methinks that in my dying hour Then, little Bird, this boon confer: Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting Spring. VII. I KNOW an aged Man constrained to dwell In a large house of public charity, S. H |